


Fidget//Purple Kisses and Firework Hands

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bad Poetry, Character Death, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Falling In Love, Famous Harry, Famous Louis Tomlinson, Friendzone, Growing Old Together, Jealousy, Life Partners, M/M, Married Couple, Parenthood, Sad Ending, Story of Our Life, Synesthesia, Two Endings, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 01:15:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19735420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Chapter One: From oops and hi, to I Do, to It's a Boy!, to Happy Anniversary, to Please Come Back.Chapter Two: Louis is blue, blue, blue. Zayn is usually pretty grey but he's nearly white whenever Niall comes around. Lou gives purple kisses and has firework hands.This is a roller coaster.*****"The first thing I noticed about you was how you were never capable of being completely still. You never stopped moving. In fact, the only time that I ever saw you still was lying in that hospital bed, a straight line across the monitor as I held your cold hand; willing, pleading, begging your fingers to fidget with mine."///////"So while I sat on our stupid Ice Cream in January couch, listening to his Crunching Leaves verses, writing down Mint lyrics of my own, I couldn’t help but be Green with envy. Oh, how I wished to make Louis and I’s lips purple and light fireworks between our fingers, just like on a rainy September day.****This is two separate sad fics. I was in my feels and came up with this, I hate sad stuff but I wanted to put these out there. I hope you enjoy them.





	1. Fidget.

**Fidget: The Life Story of Lou and Harry.**

The first thing I noticed about you was how you were incapable of being completely still.

  
When you said "hi" to me for the first time, your index finger was scratching mercilessly at the side of your thumb, blood threatening to appear from the harsh treatment. Only your awkward ass would accidentally pee on me in the loo, and instead of apologizing, introduce yourself.

  
On our first official date at that little pizza place on Fourth Street, you were so embarrassed when I pointed out that your jumping leg was shaking the table. I thought it was cute how you were so nervous. The owner didn’t think it was as cute when you jiggled your glass of water right to the floor.

  
When you met my family for the first time, I remember your eyebrows scrunching as you thought of the right things to say, not something dorky as per usual. You still managed to squeeze a Stevie Nicks reference into the encounter, though. My mom loved you instantly; you became a member of our family that day.

  
The day you proposed to me in that same pizza place, your hands were shaking so badly that you fumbled the ring and the entire restaurant had to look for it, only to find that it had fallen into your shoe. Stupid Chelsea boots with the oh-so-glamorous sparkles.

  
As I walked down the aisle, you looked so happy waiting for me at the altar, bowtie askew and hair slightly sticking up as you bounced on your toes, smiling from ear to ear, albeit lopsided. Liam was beside you being the poster child for good behavior, but even he knew after all this time that telling you to be still was an act in futility. You shuffled so much during the ceremony you stepped on my foot twice and the priest’s once. That’s what happens when you have boat-oars for feet, Mr. Size 12.

  
At the first ultrasound visit with our surrogate, you shifted in your chair and made it squeak so much that the OB/GYN threatened to make you leave the room, so you settled instead for playing with my fingers, squeezing them tightly as the ultrasound wand moved across the surrogates belly, introducing us to our son for the first time. I’m surprised the surrogate didn’t think she was carrying a baby for a crack addict.

  
When Mick was born, you wore a hole in the hospital corridor from your pacing, a red-hot streak spanning the length of the hall. Not even the surrogate, who was actually giving birth, was as nervous as you were.

  
After Mick broke his arm from falling off of the trampoline, you cried more than he did as they x-rayed him, tugging on your hair as they gently applied a giraffe-printed cast. He said that the giraffes looked like his Daddy. You said that it was your fault, that you should have been watching him more closely. Kids will be kids darling, some things just can't be helped. Plus, all of the other kids at the pediatrician's office thought that Mick was so cool for having a dad who was a famous singer. You made him so many friends that day.

  
During his graduation, you had your program, along with mine, shredded before he ever walked across the stage. Don't think I didn't notice the tears pooling in your eyes as he accepted that diploma, the one thing you never got to do. We left home too young and missed out on so many of our own milestones, and you couldn't help but live vicariously through Mick. It's still so weird seeing you with short hair, my baby’s rockstar curls were shorn to the scalp.

  
While telling him goodbye as he drove off to college, your knuckles rapped incessantly on the roof of the car. Sara was your drummer for a reason, sweetie. You had the same knack for drumming as you did for sitting still. Mick was so excited to go and study marine biology, he had been fascinated with the ocean since the first time we took him to the coast and let him run in the sand. I thought you were uncoordinated until I saw you run in the sand. Now I’m convinced you’re an alien incapable of mastering basic human motor function.

  
When Mick brought home Annie for the first time, you tugged at your ear as she talked about her studies, trying your hardest to look interested. You never could stay focused for long. But I'll give you credit, who the hell wants to sit and listen to facts about Applied Physics. Only Mick would bring home a rocket scientist to meet his two deadbeat, has-been, rockstar dads. We just smiled and nodded. If it wasn’t a bass riff or set choreography, we had no clue what the fuck was happening.

  
After your knee replacement, the nurses chastised you constantly for tangling your fingers in the wires connected to your body. It was killing you, having to stay still. It's what got you in the hospital in the first place, numb-nuts. You couldn't just sit in a lounge chair by the pool like a normal 56-year-old. Had to go on an adventure. I'm getting too old to haul your ass around, Harold.

  
At Zayn’s funeral, while your hand was laced with mine and you fought back tears as you thought of the right words to say to Gigi, your fingers picked at the fraying cotton of your suit jacket, the one you never liked to wear. You said that the fabric was itchy and you were a “Gucci hoe.” You did one modeling campaign with them, Harold, one. They’ll give you a pass for wearing Armani once. When we finally made it through the visitation line to Gigi, nothing came out of your mouth but a choked sob. What do you say to someone who loved your best friend for forty-five years, only to be left all alone because no one could find a cure? Liam didn't even come. Liam never comes anymore. And he was the best man at both of your weddings. I was there though. I'll always be there for you.

  
When Mick brought baby Eli to visit for the first time, you rocked him so fast that I was sure he was going to get sick. You were just so proud to be a Pappy, to have another little boy to teach to play guitar and sing obnoxiously with to the radio, though you never knew the words to any of the new music. You always said that "our music was the only good music." Why did I care? I was pretty much fucking deaf at that point.

  
When Eli began to learn how to walk, you would waddle right after him, chasing him down and attacking him with tickles. You secretly dyed his hair blue for him, much to Mick’s amusement and Annie's horror. You even told Eli to say that "Grandpa Lou did it." _Assshole_. We all know I can't do shit with this arthritis. Didn't stop me from backhanding you though, as you laughed. 

You never stopped moving.

In fact, the only time that I ever saw you still was lying in that hospital bed, a straight line across the monitor as I held your cold hand; willing, pleading, begging your fingers to fidget with mine.


	2. Purple Kisses and Firework Hands

**Purple Kisses and Firework Hands: Louis through Harry's Eyes**

Zayn was gray, ranging from charcoal to the lightest shade before reaching solid white.

I’ve never seen him solid white.

He would clench his fists and like a dark cloud, his color would darken.

Whenever he smiled, the clouds floated away to leave a hazy sky, almost platinum.

He was always platinum whenever Niall was around.

Niall would waltz into the room, pastels colors flickering across his visage as he kissed Zayn on the lips and fireworks shot across their faces, sparkling golds and oranges with flashes of color intermingled.

Zayn and Niall were Nutella when it first graces your taste buds, they were the pluck of a harp-string in the opening note of the prelude of a concerto.

When their hands interlocked, streaks of purple and rainy September days shot between their fingers like lightning bolts.

Niall was Dodie Yellow when he looked at Zayn, Diamond Blue lacing his cheeks like a blush.

Zayn looked like a Sunday whenever Niall was near, harsh Charcoal ebbing to a holy Battleship Grey.

But when Louis walked into a room, Zayn and Niall were Wednesday at 3:00 in the afternoon; before a nap on a dry day in August.

Blues flooded the room when he entered, completely overshadowing Zayn and Niall’s Grey-Nutella-Pastel love.

The crunch of Fallen Leaves laughter graced my ears, Cerulean smile met my eyes, and his hair had the viscosity of honey.

His lips were Celadon, his eyebrows Catalina, and his legs were Carolina.

When he sang, his voice came out Cosmic Cobalt, the feather-light touch of a hand on your cheek.

The notes he played on his piano were shaped like clouds, only they were Koamaru.

Apparently, clouds are supposed to be white and fluffy.

To me, they’ve always seemed a little orange and crunchy.

I’ve never seen this elusive “white” in my life.

I feel like it would taste like whipped cream on strawberries with a piece of pound cake, though.

I’ve always seen myself in greens and wet-dirt and the crinkle of balled up paper.

When I looked in the mirror, Kelly Green met my eyes; when I laughed, a poem was being scratched out and replaced with prose; my smile was the smell of wet dirt, and my hair was blades of dying grass in the heat of the dog days.

In other words, I was the average; the expected.

No one expected Zayn to be Grey, or Niall to be Pastel or Louis to be a symphony of the most gorgeous blues.

Everyone expected me to be basic Green, always Kelly, to be the smell of clean, fresh earth, and to sound like categorical conformity.

So while I sat on our stupid Ice Cream in January couch, listening to his Crunching Leaves verses, writing down Mint lyrics of my own, I couldn’t help but be Green with envy.

Oh, how I wished to make Louis and I’s lips purple and light fireworks between our fingers, just like on a rainy September day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I'm done being sad now sorry guys.

**Author's Note:**

> Are you sad? I'm sad.


End file.
